


Icarus

by teddytherobot



Series: Mortality [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, Gen, Overdosing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 12:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11966976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teddytherobot/pseuds/teddytherobot
Summary: Hancock has flown too close to the sun for far too long.





	Icarus

 

 

 

His head is spinning.  The world lurches around him.  Slowly, he reaches for a bottle of bourbon but his vision is so blurred.  How long has he been in this room?  He isn't sure anymore.  Time doesn't mean anything anymore.  A Med-X syringe is hanging from his arm, needle still embedded in the bend of his elbow. He tosses six more Daytripper tablets into his mouth and washes them down with the whiskey.  Dozens of Jet inhalers are scattered on the table and he pulls another from his coat.  His hands shake as he brings it to his permanently chapped lips.  John Hancock is dying and he doesn't care anymore.

 

The past six days bleed into each other.  The whiskey bottle joins perhaps forty others on the floor.  For the first several days Fahrenheit and many others had tried to reason with him.  The doorway now featured the damage of three shotgun blasts for their effort.  Everyone had agreed that he would use up his stash and then come down.  Maybe it would take him a while, but he would come back down.  He always did.   _Heh.  Shows what they know_ , he thought bitterly.

 

When did he sit up?  A minute ago?  An hour ago?  Vodka straight from the bottle.  He hasn't bothered with a glass in days.  Is that vomit?  Who cares?  He wipes his chest off anyway.  He pulls out the spent Med-X syringe and tosses it carelessly away.  Briefly he debates tying a new tourniquet but decides it's too much trouble.  Being a Ghoul has advantages.  Flesh tears away easily exposing a fresh blood vessel.  The needle pricks and he doesn't feel it.  Cold.  Cold rushing through his veins.  "Fuck yeah."

 

A voice is echoing in the Old State House, arguing with other voices, "Where is he?  How long?  I don't care!  I would rather get shot than let him fucking die in there!"  It sounds so far away.  So distorted.  Footsteps coming up the stairs.  The door slams open.  "No no no no no no..." the voice is crying.  Death hangs in the air like stale cigarette smoke.

 

Recognition.  A face swims up from the riot of colors and shapes that make up the Ghoul's vision.  The only good thing he's ever had in his life.  And he's fucking that up, too.   _Shit._

 

The sole survivor holds him close and strokes his filthy face.  Holds his hand.  Eyes roam over the patches of skin he's pulled off to shoot up.  He looks up into an expression of such hurt, all because of him.  "Hey there, sunshine.  Didn't know you cared so much," he whispers and his own voice is foreign to him.  For a moment he manages a weak grin.  And then he's gone.

 

**End**

**Author's Note:**

> A short little bit of awfulness I wrote to cleanse my palate in between fluffy things. For best results listen to something sad by Hozier while reading this. I wrote it listening to Arsonist's Lullabye and it fits the tone well.


End file.
